A Night to Forget
by Fruipit
Summary: You have a meeting, one that you do't really want your PA to attend. Regardless, the whole evening goes massively off the rails. Good thing you've always been a pragmatic sort of person. You can save it, if you try hard enough. (sideshot for Risky Business. Mild spoilers)


_This is set during Risky Business. It makes sense on its own, but if you want more context, you definitely should read that fic first. Takes place during the Norway trip when Elsa disappears the first time (RB chapter 45). It does feature an OC and uh sex. Obviously. A gift for Darratato, who leaves wonderful reviews. Beta'd by Turwen, who has been amazing. Originally written back in like, January. A nice user also helped with the Norwegian, but wished to remain anonymous (many thanks though!)_

_If you want to avoid as many spoilers as possible, don't translate the Norwegian. It's not major, but I just want you to know :) (also i hate starting with dialogue but really the fic starts after the first cut. the beginning just ties it into the main fic)_

* * *

"Hey Elsa?" Anna's voice is soft when she addresses you. You turn a little to look at her, swallowing thickly. "You uh, you look really nice."

You can't help the way your eyes widen, the surprise at the compliment written all over your face. It takes a moment for it to pass, and by that stage, Anna's got this soft little smile on her face.

"T-thank you, Anna," you tell her, trying not to give away too much. Trying not to say too much. She just smiles at you, and it makes something in your chest ache.

It's then that you leave; you can't stay any longer. Not in that room; not with Anna.

You have to take a moment in the hallway to gather yourself.

The stupid thing is that would have been so simple to return the compliment. Or just... not go out at all. To spend the evening with her because that's what you actually want to do.

Or just... return the compliment.

But that would be a lie. You're sure Anna meant what she said, but it wouldn't be the same if you returned it. It wouldn't _mean_ the same.

So you just leave, heart already filled with regrets, as you make your way outside.

* * *

The restaurant is almost smack-dab in the centre of town. It's ostentatious and expensive, and had it been your choice, you definitely wouldn't have chosen it.

Mouth curling briefly, you stop by the bar for a martini before giving your name to the waiter. A small hope flickers that your guest wouldn't show, and yet it's still one you hang onto desperately as you're led to a table.

"God kveld, Elsa."

You can't help the way your heart sinks.

"Good evening... mother..."

The woman across the table frowns as you take your seat. "Snakke ikke norsk?" she asks, and you sigh.

"Beklager, mama. Vi kan snakke norsk."

The old woman gives a strong nod, the same moment the waiter arrives with your drink. Your mother goes about ordering a bottle of white for the table, and both your dinners – evidently, she's been here a while. By the time she's finished, half your martini is gone.

"Så... faren din har sagt at du blir i en uke. Hvorfor fortalte du meg ikke?"

"Mama—"

"Han også fortell meg du tok jenta i rullestol med deg. Anna."

That effectively shuts you up. It takes another long drink of your martini to find your voice again.

"Hun... jobber for meg."

Your mother just looks at you, every insecurity and second-guess you've ever felt apparent on her face.

But then she looks away with a shrug.

"Om hon han tigli deg..." she says, almost carelessly. Your silence is enough, though.

Anna hasn't forgiven you. You can't even begin to think about broaching that topic. With each passing day, your dread grows...

... and then she smiles are you, and it's all forgotten because she has such a _beautiful smile_.

"Hun vet ikke, ikke sant?" Your mother breaks through your thoughts, and you become aware of the small smile that had begun to lift to your lips.

"Elsa... hvorfor har du ikke fortalte henne ennå?"

"Mor..." You find your voice, but lose it quickly. You can't keep going down that line of thought. Not that it matters. Your mother is as shrewd as ever.

"Du elsker henne." Her words are a simple statement, nothing accusatory at all. You still feel yourself tear up.

"Hvordan er far?" you ask instead. You can't... you just can't. At least your mother takes pity on you, and lets the conversation change.

* * *

Dinner should taste good. It _does_ taste good. But in your mouth, it turns to ash. The _topics_ stay firmly in the realm of 'comfortable', even if the whole evening is now fraught with some other kind of tension.

"Din far vil møte deg," your mother says at the end of the evening. She's paid for your meal (and the cocktail... and the bottle of wine), so you kind of feel like you owe her.

"Greit," you says, without imbuing it with much enthusiasm. "Kanskje på torsdag...?" It's enough to satisfy your mother, who leans in to give you a kiss on the cheek.

"You look beautiful, Elsa," she says very quietly. She looks sad when she says it, and you can hear the disappointment in her next words. "Please... don't do this to yourself. Don't do it to her."

You could ask what, but you know precisely what her answer would be, and you're not ready to hear it.

"God natt, mor."

"God natt, Elsa."

And then she's off and you're standing alone on the front stoop of the restaurant. It's almost half-eleven, and the driver pulls up a few minutes late, and all you want is to go to the hotel room, get comfortable, and maybe watch a movie. You want to see a friendly face, free of judgement. You want to see Anna.

It's that thought that has you instructing the driver to take you to a bar instead.

* * *

Even an up-market bar is, you muse, still fundamentally a bar. The same poor music, the same poor lighting. If anything, poorer company, though. You slide into a seat along the bench and order another martini. Try to make yourself comfortable because you feel very out of place here, and you can't even put your finger on it. There's one other person sitting along the bench, a woman a few seats down. She shoots you a look when you take your own seat, but

When someone takes the seat next to yours, you can't help but close your eyes. You hope he's going to talk to to the woman a few seats down, instead, but with the way his body is angled, though, you know you're not going to be that lucky.

"Hvor... hvordan mye?" he asks, voice slurred. He's not drunk-drunk yet, but you can smell the alcohol on his breath. It distracts you long enough that his words don't register.

And then they do, and they they _really_ do, and you're in no mood for this, no mood to be kind, so you just say, "Fuck off."

He makes a mocking sound under his breath, but he does indeed fuck off. Either he didn't care, or he realised that he definitely wouldn't have anything you wanted that evening.

But it means you're left with the other patron, who's now looking you up and down with a smirk.

"Snakker du norsk?" she asks. You down your drink and signal for another before responding, voice more curt and less forgiving than you'd intended.

"I don't know," you say, levelling your gaze. "Snakker du engelsk?"

You expect her to scoff. You expect her to roll her eyes and go back to her own drink.

You don't expect her to laugh, a light melodious sound, and move closer to the man's vacated sat. She holds out her hand.

"Hilda. At your service."

She keeps her hand there, in the space between you. There's an expectation in her tone that has the blood creeping up your neck.

"E-Elsa," you say, finally taking the proffered hand. Hilda's smile widens; while she is open and relaxed, you can feel how taut your own body is. The alcohol has helped – and you take a sip of your new drink, if only for something to do – but it hasn't completely relaxed you. The conversation with your mother has pretty much ensured that you will be on edge for the rest of the evening.

Unless...

Whatever trail your thoughts are forming, it's cut off when Hilda speaks again.

"So," she's saying – and she hasn't let your hand go yet. She should have, but she hasn't – "What's brought a gorgeous girl like you to this side of town? You're obviously not a tourist, but you're not a local, either."

You eye her. How could she possibly know that?

The question must show on your face because she leans forward to take your drink, lips curling around the rim and taking more than a sip. Her eyes never leave yours.

"I'm very good at reading people," she says once she's done. You finally wrench your hand away, feeling your cheeks flush. You're a little too dumbfounded to do anything more.

And then the pieces click into place.

"O-oh! You're a..."

She lifts an eyebrow, still smirking. Her hand comes to rest on your thigh, and your breath hitches.

"I guess that guy chose the, uh, the poorer option..."

Hilda laughs. "Mmm, I don't know. You're a very gorgeous woman, Elsa. Though, seeing as how I'm usually the one being paid, I won't ask 'how much'." There's another smirk. "Maybe if you hadn't sat down first... but I'd much rather spend an evening serving you, Elsa." Your eyes find hers, and she shrugs. "Or having you serve me..."

The mental image that conjures is enough to have your heartbeat picking up, and you close your eyes briefly. There's a dark chuckle next to you.

"Ooh, that hit a nerve."

"How much?" you say, before you can think better of it. Hilda just looks at you. "F-for you? For the evening?"

Now, her smile is positively _wicked_.

* * *

Hilda's place is only a short cab ride from the bar. The both of you get a dirty look shot your way from the earlier drunkard, but you can't really focus on anything but the pounding in your ears.

"I don't- I don't normally do this," you admit softly, more so the taxi driver doesn't overhear than from any shame or humiliation. From the few times you _have_ done this, you understand that clear communication made it easier. Especially if you were paying for it; you wouldn't put up with a poor haircut, so why would you put up with poor sex?

"Which part?" Hilda asks dryly. "The sex? The women? The escort?"

It's a combination of all three, really, and you don't even have to say it to confirm it. Hilda gets this wide smile, but for the first time since meeting her, it doesn't seem to be flirty or seductive. Her hand finds your hip, mouth a breathy whisper at your ear when she says, "Don't worry. Leave it all to me..."

The idea of her taking control sends shivers down your spine, and you can't quite hold them back. She's watching, cataloguing everything. It helps, a little. Helps remove the worry and anxiety that always seems prevalent in your mind. And it's silly things, like the fact that it's after midnight and Anna's probably concerned. You pull out your phone to send her a message when Hilda's hand closes over the screen gently. You're not sure what possesses you to let it go, to let her put it in your clutch, safe from your worrisome fingers.

"Hey, none of this," she says as the taxi pulls up next to the kerb. "You look like a woman who works too hard, Elsa. Just ignore everything but me tonight."

There's a promise in her words. One you can't dwell on because then she's getting out of the car and you're struggling to follow her, legs shaky and breath coming in shallow pants already.

You want. So, so much, and so, so bad. In a move that surprises even yourself, as soon as the door shuts, you're pushing Hilda against the wood, mouth fusing to hers hungrily. After all, this is what you've paid for, right? Stopping by a cashpoint and counting out bills to hand to her, like some shady drug deal.

You should probably try not to let your mind wander, because Hilda takes the opportunity to turn the tides and trap _you_ against the door. Her leg slides between yours, pressing deep, and you can't stifle the sound that bursts from your throat. You step out of your heels and drop your clutch. It lands with a satisfying thud.

Then Hilda leans close. One arm presses into your chest; the other digs in at your waist. You barely hear the words, ghosted over your ear, but when you do, it's all you can do to maintain some control.

"Looks like," she whispers, voice low and hoarse, "someone needs to be taught a few manners..."

"Oh God, please," you choke out, hands finding her waist and digging in. It's been _so long_ that you don't think you can stand anymore teasing.

"Clothes off," she says. Demands. Commands. "Now."

Just hearing someone speak to you in such a way sets you alight, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough. This is a game, or it should be, and there's a sure way to make it more fun.

"...No."

Hilda pauses for a moment, eyes searching yours. Looking for something, some clue as to which direction to take it. You stare back, eyes hard, and finally, she breaks into a smirk.

"Well, someone has a little fight left in them after all." And with that, the arm across your chest moves, until it's no longer an arm, but a hand at your throat, pushing in just the slightest amount. "If I give a direction, I expect it to be followed. Understood?"

You don't answer straight away, and the hand tightens. Just a little; just enough. Finally, you choke out a small, "yes," that has her tutting.

"Yes _what_?"

Your eyes flutter closed for a moment. "Yes, ma'am." When they reopen, you're looking straight into Hilda's eyes. They shimmer and sparkle, and you want so much more from her. She gives a single nod.

"Much better, Elsa," she praises, and that alone is enough to have your eyes shutting again against the wave of arousal that flows through you. "What's your word?"

"I don't- what...?"

"C'mon, Elsa. What's your word. Your safe word?"

The clarification doesn't really help all that much, and you say the first thing that pops to your head. "R-rullestol." You swallow thickly, tongue poking out to wet your lips. They don't taste like you. "It... it's rullestol."

Hilda raises an eyebrow at that, but says nothing other than a simple, "Got it. How far do you want to go?"

This- you flounder because you came out, you came _here_, to treat yourself. To have fun. You don't want to overthink it. Why couldn't sex just be sex? But at the same time, Hilda has definitely noticed something, and if this means that maybe you could have _really good sex_, you're okay with it.

It's not like you're becoming less aroused, either. If anything... it's getting worse. She's making it worse.

But no. You need to be in control, at least for the next thirty seconds. The words fall from your mouth in a breathless haze, almost too fast to catch. Hilda seems to be a good listener.

"You have the power. No blood, no scars, no... _other _bodily fluids."

Hilda moans, sending you a paralysing grin. One full of promise and temptation. And then she leans in again, hand squeezing before letting go.

"Clothes off, _now_."

Swallowing some of your trepidation – and arousal – you hurry to strip off your dress, leaving it in a pile around your heels. Arm slung across your middle, cutting over your strapless bra with your hand resting just in front of your navel, there's a brief (and unfamiliar) sensation of uneasiness.

It's not like you're a virgin. You _have_ had sex before, with both men and women, and you have _paid_ for sex before. But those times had been different, with all expectations laid out, and it moving swiftly from pre-sex to foreplay to orgasm.

When Hilda tells you to kneel on the bed and turn around, moments before a blindfold slips over your eyes, you realise that this experience is going to be completely new.

"No peeking," she sing-songs, and with the darkness comes a feeling of gratitude that you're not quite naked yet.

Despite that, you still feel yourself clench, the anticipation – and perhaps something else? – working its way through your body to set every nerve ending alight. The darkness helps, because without any visual stimulus, you begin to focus inward a little. You're incredibly aware of Hilda moving around – not that you can hear her footsteps on the carpet (nor any other sound over your own breathing, your heartbeat hammering), but you just _know_ that's what she's doing. Your ears prick at the sound of a drawer closing, and below the blindfold, your eyes squeeze shut.

At the same time, you can feel your nipples hardening, pressing against the fabric of your bra. Your underwear is well on its way to 'damp', and it would be embarrassing if you had the presence of mind.

As it is, when she takes your hands and pulls them together behind your back, your mind blanks for a moment. When something clicks into place, keeping your hands there, your mind _completely empties_, save for one word.

Handcuffs?

"Now..." Hilda's voice brushes over your left ear, warm breath against your skin. "If it ever gets too intense, just say the word and we'll stop. Blindfold will come off and so will the restraints. Hopefully, it won't come to that, though. I think we're going to have a lot of fun..."

You can't help the way you quiver at her words. Luckily, the blindfold hides the way your eyes clench in anticipation, thought it must have presented through some other part of your body. Hilda's teeth close gently around your earlobe, tugging it before they skim down the side of your throat and dig in where it meets your shoulder.

Even though you don't have use of your hands, Hilda _does_, and she makes sure to remind you of that fact in every possible sense. The lightest of touches hits your waist, fingers tickling gently as she sucks a hickey into your throat. You struggle with the handcuffs, but they're clasped tight around your wrists.

Somehow, it only makes your heartbeat pick up, blood rushing to the surface of your skin. The hands move, and before you even realise, Hilda has undone the clasp of your strapless bra and pulled it away. You don't even get a chance to prepare yourself before those glorious lips have fallen to your chest, nibbling and nipping and sucking until you can't think of anything but more, more, _more_.

Your clit throbs with each suck, and you have to bite your lip to hold back the obscene moan that wants to burst forth.

"Oh no, no no no, none of that," Hilda says, pulling away. Her hand comes up to grasp your jaw, squeezing just hard enough that you can't properly close your mouth. "No, no hiding from me." It seems she means it. Pushing your shoulders, you're powerless to stop as she forces you down, falling face-first. There's a terrifying few moments as you tip forward before you're sprawled on the bed. You try and twist around, but a heavy weight forces your whole body to make contact with the mattress. Hands still locked behind you, and blindfold blackening your vision, you don't remember ever feeling more vulnerable.

She could... literally do whatever she wanted, and you wouldn't be able to stop her.

Your throat bobs with that realisation; it must catch her eye, because soon after, she's straddling you. Her hand strokes the back of your neck, and her lips find your shoulder, and it's all so much that it takes a few moments to realise that Hilda is no longer clothed, either.

You still have your panties on, but you doubt that's going to last.

"You know," Hilda says, _purrs_ into your ear, "I can still hear you thinking. And unless it's about all the things you're going to do for me, I don't want it. Is that clear?"

A list of everything she might make you do runs through your head, and you moan out your answer. There's a wicked little chuckle from behind you, and your fingers flex. The hand at the back of your neck moves down, fingernails digging in and leaving stinging marks. They dig in until you can't hold in your cry; it comes out a breathless gasp of pain, but it doesn't end that way. Your eyes squeeze shut below the blindfold as you squeeze your legs together, trying to get some relief.

"Ooh, someone's needy. Too bad, Elsa. You've been naughty, disobeying me. Looks like we need to get punishment out of the way first."

Punishment? You twist and turn, trying to roll over, but the weight atop you prevents you from doing little more than just thrashing around.

"Stop."

You don't. You shouldn't even be surprised when there's a sudden sharp, stinging pain. It hits your lower back and flares out from there, and you let out a surprised gasp. The sensation comes again, this time on your buttocks, and you let out a hiss.

"When I give a command," Hilda says, "I expect it to be followed." She hits you again. "Understood?"

You nod frantically, just as whatever it is – a crop or something – comes down along the tender side of your arms, turned upright by the handcuffs. Your eyes water, and there's a strange feeling in your chest that you can't identify. That you don't have a _chance_ to identify because then the crop is coming down again, faster and harder. You kick your back legs up, the pain too much, and they knock Hilda's back.

The whips stop for a moment. Just above your own harsh breathing, you can hear Hilda's. Her weight shifts on the back of your legs, and even though you _know_ there's no blood, because you'd told her you didn't want it, it still _feels_ like there is. Like you're covered in it and won't ever come clean.

Or perhaps that's because you've bitten your bottom lip, hard enough that it _is_ bleeding. You let it go, the flesh tender, and open your mouth to speak.

A sob comes out instead, tumbling from your lips. You feel Hilda's weight shift, and though she doesn't touch any of the welts, it still sends pain flaring through you. You can't help the way you tense, and you try to hold back any more cries.

You deserve this. You always fuck up, so it only makes sense to let someone else fuck _you_ up, at least a little.

"Do you want to stop?" Hilda asks, very softly. You do nothing for a moment, just pressing your face into the mattress. Steady your breathing because you want to be able to _say_ your answer.

Finally, after a few seconds that take an eternity, you feel brave enough to continue.

"N-no..."

Hilda leans back again, and you feel the end of the crop run over your skin, very gently. "Good girl," she says, and your sigh of relief has more to do with her words than her actions. You still have your safe-word if it gets too intense, but... you can take this. It's only physical, right?

You keep telling yourself that, even as the crop returns. Its tip bites deeper, stings longer, and when her fingertips return, trailing along the marks just left, you find yourself becoming less and less capable of rational thought. The crop marks all over your back, over your buttocks, and Hilda even moves to let it bite into your thighs. Your hands clench and unclench, even as you try and bite back the tears because it _hurts_. It hurts _so much_ and you can't even tell her to stop because you do deserve this.

She pauses for a second and you brace yourself, body clenching in preparation for whatever strike is going to come next.

It doesn't.

It's only when the tip of something very soft, and very gentle, runs over the lattice of marks on your back that you feel everything come undone. The feather brushes away your skin, away your _sins_, and you just break. You don't even hear the click of the handcuffs come undone until suddenly your hands aren't being held in place. Hilda slides off your back and lies down next to you. She's the one who moves your arms so they're wrapping loosely around her, and the blindfold comes off so you can see her.

The room is dim, but there's still enough light to see her, to look into her eyes. At least briefly, because when her hands come up to cup your cheeks, it's the last, final little push you need.

You curl into her and cry. Your body is still so taut and tense; your back aches; and somehow, you're still turned on.

So you just weep into her skin. You let her hold you because it's what you need, and it's what you _want_.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," Hilda starts saying – or maybe she's always been talking and you just haven't noticed. "Good girl, Elsa. You're so good to take all that..."

You feel like such a child, curled around her like this, but you can't deny that the contact is... something else. When was the last time you hugged someone? Or let someone hug you?

It doesn't take long for the pain to begin fading, though you're aware, in some far reach of your mind, that you're going to be sore for a while. Hilda just keeps stroking your face, your hair, just keeps whispering little praises.

You're not even sure when your sobbing slows down, but you _do_ notice the moment that you feel more human; the moment you feel you can begin to thank her. You wipe your eyes and avoid hers just as your lips begin to ghost over her stomach.

She tastes good. There's a little tinge of salt, though you don't know if it's her sweat or your tears. It doesn't matter. She keeps telling you what a good girl you are, even as you begin to grow more ambitious. Soon, it's not just her stomach, but her sides and her thighs and all the way up to her breasts and throat. It's all yours to taste and savour.

Hilda gives a laugh, and this time, it isn't the dark, wicked little thing she gave earlier. It's much lighter, and it lifts your heart in a way you hadn't expected. The kisses you give her come faster; they aren't particularly sensual, you're aware of that. You can't find it in you to change them, though. You're not sure how else to show your gratitude other than just kissing every inch of her. Once you reach her sternum, she clasps your head and forces you to look at her.

And she looks at you, too, but it also kind of feels like she's looking _into_ you, inside your mind and your insecurities, and when she leans forward, pulling your head up to properly kiss you on the lips, it tastes like ambrosia and feels like heaven.

You don't hold back your moans this time. It's easier, somehow. Without being bound or blinded, and just coming off the unfamiliar edge she'd pushed you to, it feels _natural_ to repay her with kisses and moans. Your hands rest at her waist, pressing in and trying to climb up – trying to _touch_. You want to repay her for what she's done, what she's given you, but she doesn't seem to want that. She pulls your hands back and pushes you down so you're lying face-up. It's such a fluid motion that you barely realise until she's resting between your legs and putting her entire body weight on you. You tear your lips away from hers with an unrestrained cry, fully aware that you haven't actually come yet and she _feels so good against you_.

She uses that opportunity to press her face into your throat and just suck, drawing blood to the surface of your skin. It's almost embarrassing how turned on you get from that simple action. You can't think of anything but Hilda and her lips as your hips roll up, desperate for some friction. You're _so wet_ and so willing.

And then a now-familiar click fills your ears, and something tight and padded locks around your wrists. The handcuffs are back. They're back and they're on you and you're _handcuffed to the bed_.

"You're such a good girl, Elsa," Hilda says, the playful glimmer back in her eyes. "But I think you need to show your appreciation. After all, I went easy on you." You swallow heavily, staring up at her. She's moved, has one leg on either side of you and you _know_ what she's going to do and you actually feel yourself _throb_ at the prospect. And she knows you know because she's still giving that smirk and right now you want nothing more than to hear her cry out; to wipe that smirk off her face as she comes undone around you.

And she probably wants the same thing because she keeps moving until she's directly over your face, calves tucked under your arms. She doesn't lower herself, not yet, and in your position, you can't easily reach up to her. There's a whine that escapes your throat, and it only seems to make her smile wider. Her hand reaches down to run through your hair, gently at first before she's pulling it, pulling _you_. She forces your head to rise, and with your eyes locked to hers, you don't realise what she's doing until it's too late.

"No-no-no-no-noo...!" you cry, the anguish obvious on your face even as the blindfold falls over your eyes. You want to _see_ her!

"I can think of much better things for you to do with that gorgeous little mouth, hmm?" she teases. "Want a taste?"

It's completely undignified, the way you gasp and moan, the way you _writhe_ as you try and reach up. As you try and reach _her_. You hear her coo above you, feel her roll her hips before they finally, _finally _reach you.

The first taste is overwhelming. It fills your nose and your lungs, and the sounds she makes are divine. Her cries echo through your ears as she grinds against you. The way she pulls your hair, forcing you to open up and take her, it's exactly what you need.

"Ohh... Elsa..."

And, it seems, exactly what _she_ needs. Your clit throbs along with each roll of her hips, and you cross your legs, trying to find _some_ relief. Your nose hits her clit as your tongue enters her, drinking everything in. Not that it stays there; it can't, not when she forces your head to tilt even more, pulling your hair at its roots just so you can wrap your lips around the little nub that's bringing her so much pleasure. Blindfolded, you can't see her, but you can still sense her. Sense _everything_. The way her breaths are coming harder and faster, the way her thighs tremble around your head. The pants turn into words – "_fuck, fuck, fuck," _repeated like a mantra – as she just... fucking _uses_ you. There's no thought to _your_ pleasure, and you just keep taking it.

Your entire body is alight – you're hyperaware of _every single part_ – and it seems that the closer you bring her, the closer you get, too. The signs are all there, which is absurd because _she hasn't touched you yet_.

It seems your body didn't get the memo. At this point, it's the taste of her on your lips and the _thought_ of her between your legs that has you going, climbing higher and higher. Her own cries burst free from her lips, the hand tightens in your hair, and she suddenly lands heavily on your face, unable to keep herself up.

And, as she falls over the edge... so do you. Her taste and her gasps, the pain from your scalp, it's enough to have every muscle clenching. You're drenched in sweat, lips still moving to clean Hilda up until she's finally strong enough to move on her own. Your hips shift jerkily with the aftershocks, and you hear a little tutting noise next to you.

"Oh, Elsa..." she says. Your heart sinks, and despite the heat, you feel cold. Her hand comes to wipe at your mouth, and soon after, her mouth follows. "Did I say you could come?" she asks, lips against yours. "Since you already came without my permission, we're going to make sure you understand you're only allowed to come when _I_ say so."

You try to kiss her. She's _right there_ and right now you just want some contact – you don't even care what sort. Your arms strain against the handcuffs, shoulders aching from the pressure but unwilling to stop because you can _almost _reach her. She even permits the contact, for a few moments, letting you kiss her. Letting you suck her tongue into your mouth and letting her taste herself. She moans, and your heart lifts at that one, little sound.

But then she's pulling away, out of reach, and you can't help the pathetic noise you make. It seems she moves for a good reason, though, because there's a little click and suddenly your arms aren't being tugged above your head anymore. The handcuff comes off one hand, and you should have realised that it meant she was going to put them back on, but your brain isn't really working all that well at the moment.

"Last time, Elsa," she says, and her voice is so warm and soft when she's not gasping out expletives. She pulls you up, gently, until you're kneeling. You can hear her moving around, but you know better than to try and take off the blindfold. If she's controlling your orgasm, then she's _definitely_ controlling your vision.

The handcuffs tighten around your wrists again, but you're distracted by her words, whispered into your ear. "Don't worry, baby. I'm gonna let you come soon. Once you show me what a good girl you are, I'm gonna let you come, okay? Good and proper"

"_Please_..." you say – almost _sob_ out. And you know that you did just orgasm, but there's something about the way she promises one. You don't think you've ever been this wet before, this desperate for some relief, and it probably shows. You rock back and forth on the bed as subtly as you can. Not subtle enough: a familiar sensation bites into the tender skin of your stomach, and you realise that the crop is back. It's contrasted with the feeling of her hand at your chest, gently squeezing your sensitive breasts. What feels like a thumb flicks your nipple, and you know that it's really not going to take much at all to bring you to a finish.

"Remember what I said, Elsa," she murmurs, voice a dangerous pitch. "I can assure you, the punishment will be _steep_ if you come without my permission..."

You whimper, but manage to nod. It's shaky, but she lets out a little sound of satisfaction: obviously, it's good enough.

"Good girl..." Her lips find yours, drowning out any response you might have. She's so free with her kisses – and so good at kissing – that you forget yourself. You forget, for a moment, that you're blindfolded and handcuffed. You forget all about your shitty dinner with your mother.

This is what you want – nay, _need_. You need someone to kiss you like they care, like they care _about you_ because it's so hard sometimes. It's so hard to act like this good person when you're not, not really. Not at your core.

But Hilda doesn't know you, and Hilda doesn't care. Even as she kisses you, her hand drifts low, fingertips tickling your skin, and you just keep kissing her back because it's the only thing you're able to do, and also you just like kissing her. She's _good_ at kissing, has experience and can just read you like an open book in regards to sex.

That being said, she still lets out a surprised little noise as her hand finally slides between your legs. You break off the kiss just so you can moan. Your forehead falls to her shoulder as you rock your hips, trying to get some friction. Hilda laughs.

"You're so fucking wet, aren't you Elsa? So desperate for my hand? Or my lips?"

"Please-" you choke out, barely more than a breathy gasp. "Please touch me."

"I am, baby, I am. You feel so good, so slick and wet. You really wanna come, huh?" You nod feverishly against her, hips still moving. Her other hand strokes up and down your side, and it takes you a few moments to realise that she's trying to guide your motions. She still hasn't entered you. "Tell me," she murmurs. "Tell me what you want..."

You shudder, her tone shooting straight through and into your bones, into your core. "I want you, please..." you tell her. She chuckles.

"I need more than that. Tell me _exactly_ what you want, Elsa."

Her hand doesn't stop moving. It flitters around your clit, spreading your wetness but purposely not doing anything to bring you any closer. You bite your lip, stifling a moan borne of both frustration and arousal.

"F-fingers," you finally choke out. "I want- want your fingers inside me."

"Very good, Elsa," she praises. She doesn't give you any time to prepare because suddenly there's a finger pushing inside of you. It drags against your walls, slowly, and there's not much friction because you're _so fucking wet_. Even Hilda lets out a shaky breath, and it doesn't take long before she's added a second finger.

You know you're not going to last long, not when that happens. Not when she begins thrusting her whole hand. She drags her fingers out, leaving only the tips inside of you before she roughly forces them back in. They scrape against you, sending every nerve ending alight. You're powerless to stop your hips from rolling to meet the thrusts, and she doesn't even seem to care.

But you remember her threat, so you hold back – try not to focus too much on the pleasure forking up from where she's joined to you because you don't want to come. Not until she says so. She gave you a direction and the one thing you want, more than anything in this moment, is to make her happy. To follow it, no matter how difficult.

Your conviction slips, just a little, when she adds a thumb. It doesn't enter you; no, while her fingers are busy at work inside you, her thumb comes up to circle around your clit. Unable to see, it's almost impossible to hold back. Especially when she begins uttering her own small sounds of pleasure. They're barely noticeable at first, but without sight, every other sense is heightened.

"Please!" you cry out; your orgasm looms, a precipice you're fast approaching, and you don't _want_ to come; not until she says so. Her thumb eases, just a little. Just enough so that when she presses her mouth to your ear, you can hear her:

"Okay, Elsa. Come for me."

Her thumb presses down on your clit in the same moment she thrusts her fingers inside you. Something bursts behind your eyes, vision filled with white as you cry out before something warm and wet makes its way past the blindfold and over your cheeks. Your hips shudder as she continues to thrust into you, drawing out your orgasm, and your mouth seeks out hers, desperate for something soft and familiar.

She kisses you, hand slowing down, before she pulls her lips away. Only for a moment; when they return, they're at your cheeks, kissing away the tears that track their way down over your skin. Her hand finally pulls out from you, and you just feel so empty and tired. You aren't sure how long it takes, but eventually the handcuffs come off and the blindfold is removed. She lies down, and it's not really a conscious action when you follow her, pressing yourself as close to her as you can.

You can't really explain your need for contact in this moment, but that's okay. She doesn't ask.

Instead, she just kisses you softly – the softest she's kissed all night – and strokes your face, moving your messy hair from out of the way. "You were so good tonight, Elsa. Such a good girl..."

A whimper escapes you, and she just takes it as a cue to keep on kissing you. You don't have any complaints.

* * *

You wake up late. It has to be. Your eyes burn, the lids heavy, and the last thing you want to do is move, so you don't. It seems that Hilda is already awake, though, because a few seconds later, there's a pair of warm lips nudging at the corner of your mouth.

When you finally tilt your head, she lets out a little moan of relief. One of your own quickly follows, arousal flaring everywhere.

It makes you moan again because _how_ could you want her again? Your nipples pebble, from the feeling and from the memories of the previous night, half-formed and murky still. A hand runs down your side while another traps your wrist above your head. The handcuffs aren't locking your wrists together anymore, but one is still definitely attached to you.

"Still- still on the clock?" you pant, feeling your bottom lip get sucked into her mouth briefly. She bites it, gently, with a smile.

"Lucky you paid in advance then, huh?" she says, before leaning over to suck a welt into your throat. You writhe beneath her; the longer it goes on, the worse it gets, until finally she's rolled above you, using both her hands to restrain yours. You can feel how wet she is from this position, and it only makes you clench in anticipation, hips rolling up a little.

"Ooh, someone's needy," she teases, one hand releasing your wrists and dragging down over your stomach. She goes straight for the kill, hand delving unapologetically between your legs. You let out a moan that resonates through your chest and up to your lips. "You didn't seem nearly this riled up at the bar." With that, she leans down to kiss you again, and this time, you maintain most of your coherency. Enough to remember some details of the night before.

Dinner with your mother. Leaving Anna alone. Sex – what feels like _days_ of sex. Blindfolded and tied up from the start... you'd cried, at one point; probably more than once, but it's all a bit of a blur.

"What- what's the time?" you ask suddenly, eyes wide. Hilda backs off and frowns briefly.

"Got somewhere to be?" she asks, but she doesn't give enough time for you to answer before continuing. "It's almost ten-"

"_What_?"

Hilda looks at you, a concerned frown on her face. You scramble from the bed, from her, towards the front door. Your shoes and dress and purse are still there, and somewhere behind you, you're aware of Hilda following you. You can't really hear her though, not for the pounding in your ears. Pulling your phone out, you mash at the button.

It stays obstinately dark, and you throw it back into your purse. "_Fuck_."

What the fuck have you done?

* * *

You decline a shower. Hilda calls a cab and you pull yourself together. Climb into your dress and put your shoes on. The material scratches your back, and the tender marks blossoming there.

It doesn't feel good anymore. By the time you've arrived back at the hotel, your heart has settled in your stomach, burning hot. You want to throw up.

But you don't. You close your eyes and take a breath and hope against all hope that Anna's not in. That she's taken your silence as an invitation to go out and enjoy _herself_, because there's no way she can be having fun while _you're_ around.

Putting the key into the lock, you straighten up and open the door.

_Moment of truth_.

_...I'm sorry, Anna..._


End file.
